A black rose will spring

from a hard place;

growing brave and free in

the world’s cold face.

She will reach into her last reserves,

through the depths of bitter loam and rock

to bloom in black-rouge brilliance.

Her purple flourish is not just

for anyone.

She waits for you.

She times the moon and on the fullest night

Tilts her petals so that they are caressed

by its silvery light at just the right angle.

She waits for you.

She dances by day,

sprinkled in summer showers.

Moistened silken petals

glisten in a nourishing visual feast,

longing for your remembrance.

A black rose will spring

from many hard places:

against rock, ash and sand

or against careless, cruel hand.

She will mine her strength of ages,

even after bruised, scattered petals,

leaves torn, and stem shredded.

Through her

flows a love,

so rich it blooms in black.

By Debra Providence

©March 07, 2012

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